


when the ghosts come knocking, they don't use doors

by columbine_and_asphodel (onlycrooks)



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, parenting is hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 19:13:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlycrooks/pseuds/columbine_and_asphodel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cleaning up Chuck's room after the Breach, Herc finds a box Chuck had kept secret from him, even in the Drift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when the ghosts come knocking, they don't use doors

**Author's Note:**

> Because in my headcanon, Chuck doesn't hate Herc.

He's kneeling on the floor in Chuck's room, joints creaking, when he feels someone come in. "Took you long enough."

The chair groans as his guest gets settled. "Took  _you_  long enough, you mean."

Herc shrugs. Could be he does.

"I take it you found the box?"

Herc turns, frowning. "How'd you know about it?"

"Chuck was a lot of things, Hercules, but secretive and surprising were not among them."

"You found him with it, then?"

"I did. Promised never to tell you about it, too."

"Always did like your secrets, didn't you?" The accusation is halfhearted. Herc's too gutted by his boy's secret stash to be bothered over Pentecost's smug tone.

"What would you have done if I'd told you? Nothing."

"Bullshit! I would've...  I would've done something," Herc protests. "I know I would've.  _If you'd told me._ "

Stacker snorts. "You said it a hundred times, mate. You never knew what to do with that boy."

Herc deflates, unable to contradict himself. He'd never been good with children, and it hadn't been any different with Chuck. But Herc  _had_  tried. He'd wanted to make his boy the happiest little bastard in the world and hated himself when he couldn't.

It was hard to make Chuck happy when Herc was on the other side of the planet.

"No, I didn't. I don't think he knew what to do with me, either."

"You're his father. He knew exactly what to do with you," Stacker snaps, the old chair groaning as he leans forward. "All children do. When he was little, he thought you were a god and worshiped you. Then he got older and found out you're human, so he tried to hate you. Given time, he would've moved on again."

"So why'd he keep this?" Herc shakes the box lightly. It's almost as long as his forearm and wide as his spread fingers. The corners are worn, and the top doesn't fit right, the fading sticker there saying it's from a pair of boots Chuck outgrew five years ago. Despite being hidden at the back of the closet, it's dust free. "If he wanted to hate me, why didn't he just chuck it? The uncomfortable pressure of a boot on his hip is Stacker's reply. "Yeah, yeah. Tried and wanted are different."

"Were you always thick, and I didn't notice-" The boot presses harder "- or are you doing this on purpose?"

Flapping a hand at Stacker's leg- "That  _hurts_ , Pentecost," "Don't be stupid, then"- Herc scowls. "Neither."

"Why don't you just ask him yourself, if you can't see it?"

"It's not that simple, actually."

"Of course it is." With a final nudge, Stacker takes his foot away and gets up. "When you're finished pawing through that like an animal, you could talk to him. Good for answering questions, talking. Mako and I found it useful."

Herc doesn't mean to flinch, but he does.

Stacker's rough laughter echoes long after he leaves.

* * *

The box's contents hurt him more than watching Striker Eureka signal disappear .

Inside are

Two...

pictures: one of Herc sitting on the hospital bed, holding a baby Chuck, both looking half about to cry as Angela laughs beside them; the other a candid from Chuck's graduation, Herc surrounded by the other families and ignoring them, proudly looking at the stage as Chuck is given his own, proper dog tags

Ranger figurines: Herc's is missing an arm and both boots, while Chuck's has lost one boot, half a trouser leg and two fingers

One...

pair of fake dog tags- a belated gift Herc picked up in Hawaii for Chuck's seventh birthday and gave him two months before his eighth

twig- "Oi- be careful with that! You'll poke my eye out, Chuck." "'S okay, Dad. I can just cast a spell and get you new one!"

postcard- addressed from Somewhere; reads,  _Happy 10th, son. Tell your mum it's time. She'll understand. -Dad_

Herc doesn't remember what he'd meant by that. He isn't sure he ever had.

When he gets to the bottom in the box, it gets hard to breathe. He doesn't know how Chuck got it, but here it is, worn and almost illegible. A furious letter he'd written years ago, when his boy was exactly that, to the parents of a kid who'd been teasing Chuck about "being unlovable."

_"Got no mom, and your dad's not around. What does that leave, Hansen?"_

Looking back, the threats hadn't been as vague as Herc had thought they were. But that little Anderson prick had made his son cry, and Herc wasn't about to have that. Not for his son.

Attached to his threatening letter is a filthy, tattered scrap of paper with Chuck's wobbly nine year old cursive that says, simply: _Daddy loves me._

Herc's hands shake violently, threatening to tear the little reminder, gut wrenching at the thought of ripping it.

Tucking it into his pocket, Herc looks back at the otherwise carefully re-packaged box and thinks,  _I should have said it more. He shouldn't have needed that._

_I should have kept him safe._

* * *

When he finally gets back to his room, he collapses on the bed.

Chuck's note is smooth between his fingers and sharp in his chest.

Herc should be planning what to say at tomorrow's interview- damn Pentecost for dropping this on him, couldn't even be bothered to leave one of his speeches for a friend, could he, the selfish bastard?- but he's twenty years too old to stay up all night and come up with something good.

"The Kaiju are gone. My son is dead," sounds right.

He shifts, trying to make his arm ache less, when something crinkles. Praying it isn't more work, he heaves himself to the side and slides his good arm under his pillow. Turns out, it's another scrap of paper, this time with Chuck's adult handwriting.

_Old Man,_

_That day in Sydney. Why'd you pick me? ~~Why not Mum- your wife?~~_

_I ~~hated you~~ ~~couldn't~~ ~~can't~~  don't understand. But I was happy you did, 'cause I didn't want to die. _ _After Mum died, I said things. ~~Forget them.~~ ~~I didn't mean 'em.~~  _ _~~People do that when they're scared.~~ ~~I hated you for picking me, but I think I understand.~~ _ _Kids are brats._

_~~If I die-~~_

_Wear your fucking cover for the news, Marshall. No one wants to remember you're a ginger._

_-Chuck_

Herc folds the paper carefully and puts it back under his pillow. He doesn't cry, but when he wakes the next morning, his face is wet.

**Author's Note:**

> It's the wee hours of the morning and I should be sleeping, so apologies for any and all slip ups.


End file.
